


12 Days of Wincestmas

by doctor__idiot



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Bottom Sam, Christmas Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, M/M, Oblivious Dean, Pre-Series, Some pining, Stanford Era, Top Dean, mentions of other relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-12 01:36:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 13,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9049972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor__idiot/pseuds/doctor__idiot
Summary: A collection of my 12 Days of Wincestmas ficlets.





	1. A Californian Christmas

When Sam opens his dorm room door to Dean’s shit-eating grin on Christmas Day, he instantly thinks of that saying, the one about absence making the heart grow fonder, because he can’t believe how stunningly beautiful his brother is.

It’s the first Christmas he spends at Stanford. California barely has seasons and Sam couldn’t have been less in a holiday mood if he had tried. 

But as soon as he lays eyes on Dean holding a bottle of eggnog in his left and a small, untidily wrapped present in his right hand, he already feels less a lot less like the Grinch.

‘What are you doing here?’ he means to ask but Dean beats him to the punch. “You gonna let me in?”

Sam’s roommate went home for the holidays a couple of days ago, so the mess isn’t as bad as it usually is. Not that Dean would notice or care.

He is wearing holey blue jeans and three layers that should seem out of place in California, even in the winter months, but don’t because Dean pulls it off effortlessly. 

He looks exactly like he always does, exactly like Sam remembers him from six months ago when he stepped on that bus, studiously keeping his eyes front and not looking back because he knew he would cave otherwise.

It’s different than the Christmases they had before, with their dad. There’s less whiskey and more eggnog and Sam even gets Dean to watch Home Alone with him. It doesn’t actually take all that much convincing and Dean giggles like a kid at every prank played on the intruders.

Sam doesn’t ask about hunts and Dean doesn’t tell. They don’t talk about John, what he’s doing, where he thinks Dean is, if he knows. Sam wants to know but it’s not important. It’s not worth risking Dean’s good mood, so he keeps quiet.

They fall asleep halfway through the second movie, squished together in Sam’s narrow twin bed, and only wake up when the credits are already rolling. Dean’s hair is sticking up on one side and he blinks sleepily a couple of times, looking entirely relaxed and at ease in Sam’s dorm room.

It makes Sam’s heart ache with all that could have been, should have been, possibly would have been if their lives were different. But they aren’t and there is no point in dwelling. Sam can’t help it sometimes.

Dean doesn’t _look_ unhappy. He doesn’t seem like he’s missing something, except maybe Sam but that’s to be expected.

It never ceases to amaze Sam how Dean manages to fit in everywhere he goes, adapts to his surroundings without losing himself. Sometimes, Sam feels like all he ever does is lose himself. He sticks out like a sore thumb, he doesn’t belong, and yet he can feel himself slip away, disappear.

Now, though, with Dean solid and warm next to him, for the first time in six months, he thinks he can actually do this.

They eventually fall asleep again and when Sam comes around, it’s bright outside. It’s Boxing Day and he can smell coffee. Dean must have gone and come back to grab some breakfast for them. God knows how he managed that on a day like this.

It only serves to strengthen Sam’s belief that Dean is, in fact, Superman, even if he denies it. ‘Batman kicks way more ass, Sammy. Besides, I sure as fuck ain’t wearing tights.’

Sam nearly laughs when he sees that his brother is wearing one of Sam’s Stanford sweatshirts. Even if it didn’t have the university’s name printed on the front, it’s not something Dean would usually wear, but it doesn’t look bad on him. Actually, it looks pretty fucking good.

The laugh that was threatening turns into a sob that Sam just barely manages to hold back. A choked sound comes out of his mouth and Dean’s eyes immediately fly to him.

“You okay?”

Sam manages to nod. He’s still nodding when he crawls out of bed, still dressed in his clothes from the day before and in desperate need of a shower, and hugs his brother hard.

Dean gives a start before he relaxes and pats Sam on the back a little awkwardly. He doesn’t say anything, just eyes Sam with suspicion when they part and Sam suppresses a sniffle.

“Alright, you big baby,” Dean says with the hint of a smile and hands Sam one of the paper cups. “Here, have some caffeine.”

Sam takes the coffee and takes a big, scalding hot gulp. If his mouth is busy, he can’t say anything stupid like ‘Thanks for coming’ or ‘Stay’ or even ‘I love you’.

His gaze falls to the mussed bed where Dean’s newspaper-wrapped present still sits on top of the nightstand. Sam had nearly forgotten about it.

He shoots his brother a look and Dean makes a ‘go ahead’ gesture with his hand, already chewing on his breakfast bagel.

Quickly, Sam peels away the pieces of Scotch tape and folds back the paper to reveal a small wooden box. It looks old, like something Dean found somewhere and pocketed because he thought it was kind of nice.

Inside of it is a key. Sudden dread grips Sam’s chest. “What the hell?” he asks, his head whipping around. “You’re giving me the Impala?”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up and he forgets to chew for a moment. Then he bursts out laughing. “Hell, no,” he says, grinning, “She’s mine.”

Sam studies the key in the box a little closer. It looks so similar and he never drove the car much anyway. The mistake is an easy one to make. “Then what…”

“I found her at Bobby’s,” Dean explains in between chews. “She was just sitting here. Took me a while but I got her up and running, brushed up the paint job, gave her a new set of tires.” He pauses. “I thought, maybe, you’d like some way to get around other than riding the bus. You can take her to drive out to the beach or whatever you young kids do these days.”

“You’re giving me a car.” Sam’s voice sounds incredulous to his own ears. He has never owned a car.

Dean shrugs his shoulders, crumpling his bagel wrapping. “It’s not a big deal. I probably would’a worked on her either way, just for the fun of it. ’s not like I’m hunting constantly.”

“Wait,” Sam says, “If you drove that here, how are you gonna get back?”

Dean scoffs. “Think you’re the only one who can work out the bus system around here?”

“You never ride the bus.”

The corner of Dean’s mouth turns up in a wry smile and he shakes his head. If Sam didn’t know any better, he would say Dean looks fond.

Sam’s throat is closing up again. He doesn’t know what to say, so he simply says, “Thank you,” and it seems to be enough for Dean.

The car turns out to be a ’73 Chevy pick-up in a nice shade of dark red. 

“She’s not the Impala but I liked her straight away when I saw her.” Dean’s eyes are glittering with excitement as if _he’s_ the one getting a car, not giving one to Sam. Sam agrees that it is a nice car but it’s difficult to take his eyes off his brother for longer than ten seconds to properly look at it.

“She’s got a V8 engine and a four-wheel drive because I know how much snow you get here in upstate California.” It’s a lame joke but Sam gives a snort of laughter anyway when he sees Dean’s boyish grin.

Sam doesn’t have a present for Dean because he didn’t think Dean would actually bother to make the trip. He couldn’t be more elated to have been wrong. 

He lets Dean keep the sweatshirt instead.


	2. Frequent Flyer's Privilege

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this](http://glitter-lisp.tumblr.com/post/144504054424/because-i-hate-airports-but-im-trying-my).

Jensen should be used to Vancouver’s climate. He’s worked there for two years now, for crying out loud.

Every year, the teeth-shattering cold hits him anew and he keeps buying winter jackets that are thicker than the last one. He’s a Texas boy, he can’t help it.

The six-and-a-half hour flight is no joke, even if he is a frequent flyer, but he wasn’t able to go home earlier because something always comes up last minute and now he can’t wait to see his family.

Everyone would be there. His sister and her husband with their two girls who never stand still for even a second, his brother with his fiancée and their little baby boy, his mom and pop who can never hide their excitement when he comes home for the holidays. 

He should visit them more. He always promises and never follows through. It’s difficult. Vancouver isn’t exactly around the corner from Austin.

It started snowing the night before and it’s sufficiently white outside. Some of the flights are already delayed because of the weather and Jensen is a little worried that some will be canceled.

The airport terminal is warm at least and Jensen steers right for the Starbucks he frequents when he’s flying out to some place, either to go home of for work. He spends more time at airports in general and this one in particular than he likes.

Except, it’s not so bad because there’s Jared.

He’s kind of always there when Jensen tumbles into the airport Starbucks, behind the counter, preparing drinks at a dizzying speed when it’s rush hour and counting money or mopping up spilled coffee when there aren’t as many customers. 

Jensen swears the guy lives there.

Occasionally, they trade stories. Jared tells him about funny encounters with customers and Jensen talks about this or that business trip. He’s always afraid he is boring Jared to death but Jared keeps asking questions about Jensen’s work, even if he is usually more interested in the countries and cities Jensen flies to. Jensen wishes he could see more of the places he goes to, have more stories to tell Jared, but his work usually takes up most of his time there.

It’s 9 AM on Christmas Eve and the coffee shop is already fairly busy. 

Jensen’s 1 PM flight is still a while away – he is always ridiculously early – and he takes a seat near the counter, depositing his luggage underneath the table.

He waves at Jared when their eyes meet coincidentally and Jared grins back, holding up his index finger in a ‘give me a minute’ gesture.

The shop is counter service only but Jensen drinks the same beverage every time and Jared has it memorized. They have a neat little thing going where Jared prepared Jensen’s drink when he sees him walk in and brings it to him when there aren’t any customers waiting in line.

In turn, Jensen occasionally helps out when the shop is understaffed and rush hour is at its peak.

Jared protested at first when Jensen squeezed behind the counter for the first time about four months ago, offering to man the register and take the orders so Jared could focus on making drinks. At the time, most of the staff had called in sick and Jared was essentially running the shop by himself. Jensen was only able to watch the poor guy dash around for so long.

He is not as much of a natural at dealing with customers as Jared is but then again, Jensen doesn’t know anyone who’s as good at that as Jared. Constant smile, always friendly, occasionally cheeky but never too flirty, and insanely competent. He knows the ingredients of every drink by heart, for God’s sake.

There is no need for Jensen to help out now. Jared’s co-worker Lauren is dealing with the drinks while Jared’s behind the register and makes every customer’s day a little brighter simply by being Jared.

Jensen wonders what the guy’s Christmas plans are. It’s not like they really know each other. Hell, Jensen doesn’t even Jared’s last name. They never meet outside of the coffee shop, outside of the airport, of a hectic, uncomfortable environment.

Jensen feels everything _but_ uncomfortable whenever he walks into the cozy Starbucks.

~

It doesn’t take long for the shop to become busy enough that Jared can’t stop by Jensen’s table now and then and chat anymore, so Jensen just watches him work.

He’s sitting far enough away that he doesn’t catch most of what Jared says to the customers. Occasionally, his youthful laugh reaches Jensen’s table. 

Jensen realizes he doesn’t actually know how old Jared is. He doesn’t know why it matters to him, either.

The next time Jensen checks the humongous arrival and departure display in the terminal, his 1 PM flight has moved to 3. He sighs. It was to be expected with the snowfall last night and an incoming storm but he is not ready to let go of his hope that he will make it home today just yet.

He is already going to miss dinner with his family, he at least wants to be there on Christmas morning when the kids wake up.

~

That hope is slowly dwindling when his flight gets pushed back further and further and most of the other flights have already been canceled.

Jared pops up next to him when he re-enters the coffee shop after having checked the time. “You look like you could use something stronger than coffee right about now.”

It’s late afternoon and the buzzing in the shop is starting to die down. People whose flights got canceled went home a while ago, some others hurry in and out of the shop, grabbing a quick fix of caffeine before boarding. There are about four other customers who are sitting at tables much like Jensen is, twiddling their thumbs, checking their watches, and groaning every time there’s a boarding announcement that is not theirs.

Jensen nods, agreeing with Jared, he could really do with something alcoholic, and he is surprised not five minutes later when Jared puts down a mug in front of him.

“Irish Coffee. Don’t tell anyone.” He grins widely, dimples showing, and Jensen feels himself smiling against all odds.

~

When the announcement sounds that all remaining flights are canceled until further notice, Jensen feels his heart sink even if he has been waiting for it. At least he had the foresight to mail his gifts for the kids to his parents ahead of time. 

He would just have to wait until the storm’s over and then see if he can catch a plane to spend the rest of the holidays with his family.

9:30 PM rolls around and Jared closes up the shop. Jensen is not entirely sure why he’s sticking around. He could go home to his warm bed but he isn’t in a hurry to do so.

Jared looks tired. He has worked all day and it has been a busy day. He’s smiling anyway when he approaches Jensen who’s sort of hanging back while Jared locks the doors.

“You were going to see your family?”

Jensen nods, sighs. “Yeah. Gotta see if I can get a flight out tomorrow or the day after.”

Jared tilts his head, fiddling with the keys. “You married?” he asks, sounding uncharacteristically shy. “Kids?”

“No.” Jensen shakes his head. “My parents live in Austin and the entire bunch’s there over the holidays. My nieces and nephew are there, too.”

Jensen realizes that he has never told Jared this, other than that he grew up in Texas because Jared mentioned at some point that he did, too.

“You going to visit someone?” he asks.

Jared nods. “My sister in Seattle. I’ll drive over there tomorrow morning. She’s got an over-excited four-year-old.”

Jensen laughs. He knows those ones. His nephew is barely a year old but his twin nieces are six now and still haven’t calmed down any. He strongly suspects his sister is secretly Supergirl.

“You know what?” Jared suddenly says, looking up at the display that is only showing canceled flights now. “I’m starving. Wanna see if there’s a Wendy’s open?”

Jensen only now notices how hungry he is. He has long had enough of airport food and the last time he ate was around noon. It wasn’t more than a chocolate muffin, either.

“I could go for some fries,” he says and is immediately rewarded by Jared’s dazzling grin. 

Jensen realizes something. “You got a car here? I took a cab.”

Jared nods and is already moving, taking Jensen’s luggage from him so Jensen is left with only his carry-on bag. He could very well handle his own luggage but he doesn’t protest.

When they reach Jared’s car – a sleek latest-model Chevrolet Cruze – and Jensen gets into the passenger side, he asks, “By the way, what’s your last name?”

Jared’s eyebrows curve but so does his mouth. “Padalecki.”

Jensen extends his hand with a grin. “Jensen Ackles, nice to meet you.”

As far as Christmases go, it could be worse.


	3. A Treacherous Thing

The first time Sam falls in love is when he just turned thirteen. Her name is Sally and she’s got pigtails. It’s pretty clichéd but her smile is so beautiful and she always smells like raspberry bubble gum.

Her sticky-sweet cherry lipgloss leaves a stain on his cheek whenever she kisses him.

When John and Dean finish with the hunt and are ready to move on, Sam watches her in the rearview mirror while she sobs.

~

The second time Sam falls in love is on his fifteenth birthday. For once the Winchesters are staying in one place long enough for Sam to build more than just one fleeting friendship, and he and a group of his friends from school are hanging out at someone else’s party that they are all way too young for.

Sam isn’t off-his-ass drunk but he is fairly intoxicated when someone suggests they all play Spin the Bottle.

There are some _I sure as hell ain’t kissing her_ ’s, some _Never ever is my mouth touching his_ ’s, and a lot of hooting and giggling. One pair actually makes out for a whooping ten minutes.

Sam only remembers the next morning that it was him and a girl named Delilah Ripley. She doesn’t talk to him in school after that, only scoffs in his general direction for the next two weeks, and for once, Sam isn’t all that broken up when John eventually tells him that it’s time to move on.

~

Sam is sixteen-and-a-half when he falls in love properly for the first time. He realizes the times before that were mostly flukes, crushes, _teenage puppy love_ as Dean would call it.

Dean. For a while there Sam debates telling his big brother. That he met someone he likes. That he is going on a date, his first ever real date. 

Drive-in movie theater. Sam isn’t even sure which movie they are going to watch. Hunter picked and Sam is all for surprises. 

When he met the blue-eyed boy from Minnesota, Sam had a hard time keeping his laughter inside. Of course he would be called Hunter, that’s just the way Sam’s life works.

Sam isn’t one of those teenagers who scribbles their notebooks full of their crush’s name or, God forbid, their combined names. But he can’t help thinking that Hunter Winchester would be one badass fucking name.

They sit in Hunter’s old pick-up in the theater, sharing popcorn. The movie turns out to be My Bloody Valentine and Sam suppresses a snort.

“Don’t worry,” Hunter says in a joking tone, “If you’re scared, just hold my hand.”

Sam smiles at him. He doesn’t tell Hunter that he’s watched the movie several times already, that Dean tells him the exact same thing every time they watch it together and Sam always sticks his tongue out at his brother in retaliation. He doesn’t tell Hunter that he isn’t scared of movies because he knows what _real scary_ looks like.

Ten minutes in, he grabs Hunter’s hand anyway.

~

It isn’t until Sam is eighteen that he realizes what love really looks like. 

He can see it in the heartbreak in Dean’s face when he finds the acceptance letter. He sees it in the way Dean holds himself when he tells Sam he’s so proud of him, upright but shoulders hunched as if he’s in pain, as if he’s trying not to fold in on himself.

Sam feels in it the way his own heart shatters as he sits in the passenger seat of the Impala, mute, packed duffel bag knocking against his shins with every movement of the car. 

He knows it in the way salty wetness stings his eyes when he forces himself not to look back after he got on the bus even though he so desperately wants to.

He knows he is homesick but somehow that doesn’t seem to extent to the countless motel rooms or the Impala. Or John. Anyway how can you be homesick if you never had a home. So maybe it’s something else.

It takes him four weeks to sleep through the night without waking up, without tossing and turning, without complaints from his roommate. It takes four more for the nightmares to die down.

Sam is eighteen when his heart breaks for the first time.

~

Sam thinks he is going to get married when he is twenty-one. It’s kind of early but has always lived with the thought in the back of his mind that he might not have much time. That something is going to come around the corner and kill him. He is more aware of the inevitability of death than the average person, more than he likes.

He buys the rings but he doesn’t ask. Not yet.

Christmas rolls around and Jessica decorates their entire apartment with lights. She kisses him underneath the mistletoe taped above their door and gifts him the watch he has been eyeing for the past three months. 

It’s perfect but he can’t get the taste of something stale out of his mouth.

~

Sam is twenty-two when he finally feels like he can breathe again. His chest breaks free and he’s spluttering, sucking in oxygen like a drowning man after his rescue. His lungs are burning but Sam doesn’t give a shit because nothing has ever been sweeter than this.

Dean looks exactly like he always does when Sam imagines him behind the closed lids of his eyes. It’s strange, he never seems to age much but his voice is definitely deeper and Sam briefly wonders whether he’s taken up smoking. But Dean doesn’t seem restless and Sam never finds a packet of cigarettes on him. It could always be the whiskey, though.

The Impala smells the same and Dean does, too. He never smelled like raspberry bubble gum or cherry lipstick or popcorn. He doesn’t have blue eyes but he does watch scary movies with Sam and he looks at him as if nothing except Sam makes sense to him.

He isn’t one for dates but he lets Sam have the last bit of cereal. He plucks pieces of hair and lint and occasionally mud off Sam’s clothes in passing and he always goes through a door first, keeping himself between Sam and potential danger.

He plays his shitty music way too loud in the car and he keeps dialing it up until Sam snaps and yells at him. It’s the same routine over and over again and he doesn’t seem to get sick of it, just grins widely when Sam explodes and keeps grinning until it gets too difficult for Sam to stay mad at him.

They are looking for their father but Dean keeps making detours. “I wanna see stuff, Sammy,” he says. “What’s the point of having the entire country at our feet if we don’t see it?”

Sam never went to see Yosemite when he was in California and when he tells Dean this, his brother gapes at him. So off they go.

It’s Death Valley next and then Las Vegas. The Grand Canyon and El Paso. They don’t stop until they leave Texas behind them and before they know it, they find themselves in New Orleans. Sam would like to go to New York City but he doesn’t tell Dean that because they have to find their father.

Weirdly enough, the most memorable experience comes later _after_ all those big and beautiful places. 

Sam thinks it’s Idaho where they are but he’s not entirely sure. It’s a bar anyway, one he’s never been to and doesn’t much want to go to again but the bar is not what’s important.

Dean may not be called Delilah Ripley but he kisses Sam when he’s had too much to drink and his lips taste just as much like liquor.

Sam doesn’t remember liking the taste this much. He doesn’t remember his heart beating this fast and when Dean’s tongue licks into his mouth, he finally realizes that he never actually fell in love more than once.


	4. Chocolate Chip Cookies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the tags of [this post](http://marrieddorks.tumblr.com/post/154906396097).

They text each other every night, even if they just spoke a couple of hours ago. After a day on set, at conventions when they share the same hotel floor, and when they are with their families. In Vancouver, in L.A., in Texas, it doesn’t matter.

It’s usually something stupid or irrelevant, too. Like ‘Just saw a cute dog.’ That’d be Jared. Or ‘Dude, I’m hungry. Let’s go eat!’ That’s also Jared.

‘You awake? I can’t sleep.’ Usually Jensen. Or ‘I’m kinda drunk. Come over here and finish this bottle with me.’

‘I thought of a funny joke earlier but now I can’t remember.’ Jared.

‘Your jokes are never funny anyway.’ Jensen.

It’s more than just a tradition. Neither of them remembers how it started but it did and it turned into a near-automated habit. They never forget, no matter how hectic it gets, because something would be missing for the both of them.

Particularly around Christmas time, when the house is full of family members and excited children, it can become a little too much sometimes. Dallas and San Antonio are not that far apart that they can’t drop in on each other, and they do, but mostly they just seek out a quiet room to speak on the phone and keep each other updated via text throughout the holidays.

‘My nephew’s driving me batshit,’ Jensen texts around noon, ‘I love the kid to death but he wants me to bake Christmas cookies with him. Me. Bake cookies. ME.’

Jared snorts when reading the texts and his mom grins at him as she passes him with her little granddaughter sleeping in the crook of her arm.

“Something funny?” she asks fondly but Jared doesn’t explain, just shakes his head in a ‘never mind’ gesture and kisses her cheek.

Jared loves his family. He doesn’t see his parents and his siblings as often as he would like, and he has grown fond of his nieces and nephews as well. But he can’t help wishing that he could celebrate Christmas with Jensen, too.

After all, they have become something like family. They usually get together for Thanksgiving, the Padaleckis and the Ackles all in one place in Jensen’s parents’ giant house, and it’s utter chaos every time but so much fun.

Scheduling conflicts made it impossible for them this year and Jared would like to spend at least one holiday with Jensen.

Jesus, you’d think they’re attached by the hip or something. His mother frequently says so, too.

~

An hour later, when Jared is playing hide-and-seek with his nine-year-old niece, his phone vibrates in his pocket. Jensen sent a picture of something that looks charred beyond recognition.

‘Burned the first batch,’ the caption says and Jared presses his hand against his mouth so he doesn’t laugh and give away his position in the bedroom closet.

Five minutes later, a giggling Tracey yanks open the doors. “Gotcha,” she grins and Jared can see that two of her front teeth are missing.

~

The whole family is sitting at the dinner table, talking, laughing, sharing stories, when Jared’s phone vibrates again. 

His mom, who’s sitting right next to him and catches him checking the screen, discreetly nudges him. “Is something going on?”

Jared looks at her, automatically lowering his voice. “What’s going on?”

The left corner of her mouth turns up. “I’m asking you.”

He’s quick to shake his head. “No, nothing. Some of the guys from set sent holiday wishes.”

He isn’t entirely sure why he’s lying to her. It’s not like he is doing anything out of the ordinary. His mom knows he talks to Jensen a lot and both their families are on good terms. There’s no need to feel like he is sneaking around, and yet, that’s exactly what it feels like.

“Excuse me,” he says quickly and finds himself in the hallway, opening Jensen’s message. 

It’s another picture, this time from a tray of delicious-looking chocolate chip cookies.

‘Nailed it,’ the captions reads. The message below it says, “Just made two dozen of these. Levi’s over the moon. Wife me the fuck up!’

Jared’s first instinct is to laugh out loud because it’s such a Jensen thing to say. He can practically see the guy’s proud face, imagines him pounding his own chest in accomplishment.

A wide-stretched grin takes over Jared’s face and he types the first thing that comes to his mind. 

‘Would in a heartbeat.’

It is, of course, a ridiculous thing to say even if it is true. The moment Jared sends it he realizes that it’s true.

He has never given it much thought, but he _has_ given it thought. Not marriage per se, but something. The moment he met Jensen he knew they could, _would_ be good together.

It isn’t exactly something he wants to think about on Christmas Day, surrounded by his family, with Jensen 300 miles away, sitting at the dinner table surrounded by his own family.

Jared presses the back of his hand against his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut when a choked noise threatens to make its way out of his throat.

~

There isn’t a text from Jensen after that. It’s just past 11 PM and the house has gone quiet. The kids went to bed hours ago and the adults either did, too, or are still sitting in the living room, drinking wine and talking quietly.

Jared excused himself half an hour ago to go up to his old bedroom that he still stays in when he visits his parents. He is tired but too restless to sleep.

Besides, there hasn’t been a ‘good night’ text from Jensen yet. Not that they actually ever said ‘Good night!’.

He jumps when his phone vibrates in his hand, signaling a call. He sees the caller ID and picks up on autopilot. “Jensen?”

“Did you mean it?”

Jared could play dumb, ask ‘Mean what?’ but Jensen would know he’s stalling. Anyone else would have taken Jared’s text as a funny answer to Jensen’s joke, but they both know that’s not what it was.

“I meant it,” Jared says, voice hoarse, and he realizes he is gripping the phone way too tightly.

There’s a thin-sounding laugh from the other side. “Good. Because if not, I just drove four and a half hours for nothing.”

It takes all of five seconds to permeate Jared’s brain what Jensen’s telling him. He shoots up from the edge of his mattress so fast his vision blurs.

He takes the stairs three steps at once, half-walking half-sliding down on his socks until he reaches the front of the house and unlocks the door.

It practically never snows in San Antonio but, right now, there are white flakes coming down on Jensen’s spiky dirty-blond hair where he’s standing in the Padalecki’s driveway. He is wearing a jacket that is way too thin for the prevailing weather conditions.

Somehow he manages to look more beautiful than Jared remembers.

“Hi,” Jensen says softly, shyly. He is shivering slightly and it jolts Jared out of his stupor.

He ushers Jensen into the warm house and throws his arms around him before Jensen has a chance to take off his shoes.

His arms come around Jared’s back and Jared buries his nose in the crook of Jensen’s neck. He breathes, “Hi.”


	5. Birthday Boy

For the Winchesters, birthdays aren’t really a thing. 

In a life in between hunts, always on the lookout for things that itch to maul and maim you, there’s just not that much time. Dean always made an effort, little things, but Sam can’t remember any actual birthday parties.

He isn’t bitter about it. It’s just a day after all.

The Winchesters haven’t had much luck with birthdays so far, either. 

Sam doesn’t particularly want to think about his twenty-third and -fourth, both of which were utter catastrophes. All he remembers is his own horror, Dean’s infuriating grin, the feeling of absolute bone-crushing helplessness, and holding Dean’s broken lifeless body in his arms. Tears and so much pain.

No one can blame him for not being big on birthdays after that.

As far as Dean goes, there’s that teensy-tiny but not unimportant detail that his birthday happens to coincide with Jessica’s. Sometimes Sam thinks the universe is fucking with him on purpose.

It’s not like Dean has ever insisted on celebrating but, nonetheless, being reminded of your dead girlfriend on your brother’s birthday is cruel.

Why this year is different, Sam’s not entirely sure. He doesn’t feel the usual pang of sadness anymore when he thinks of Jessica, and while it scares him a little, he is also glad.

Dean does look at him a little like he wants to throw holy water on him and start chanting Latin when Sam suggests going out to a bar but he refrains. Just grabs his keys and his jacket and rolls with it.

So that’s how they end up smack-dab in the middle of the dance floor, slow-waltzing to Metallica’s _Nothing Else Matters_.

No, hold on. There’s something before that.

~

“You’re kidding.” Dean is quite definitely gaping at him.

Great. Now Sam’s self-conscious about it. “It’s not that weird.”

The way Dean is reacting one would think Sam just told him he’s got twenty toes instead of mentioning that Jessica occasionally gave him dance lessons when they went out together. 

He’s no Fred Astaire but he doesn’t make a complete fool of himself.

Dean shrugs. “It’s not weird but the image of Sam ‘two left feet’ Winchester tangoing to some Phantom of the Opera crap is pretty fucking hilarious.”

Sam does _not_ point out that what’s truly hilarious is Dean ‘tough guy’ Winchester knowing that Phantom of the Opera is, in fact, a tango. He limits himself to an amused snort and leans back against the bar.

They’re not drunk by anyone’s standards. Dean is nursing his second beer and Sam now eyes his own Scotch tumbler suspiciously.

He never drinks Scotch, he doesn’t know why he ordered it. Dean makes a ‘gimme’ gesture with his hand and Sam hands it over.

Dean downs it in one gulp, putting it back down on the bar top with a clank. “Show me,” he says, out of the blue.

“Show you what?”

Dean is already moving, nudging Sam along with his elbow, and the people on the dance floor part for them.

“Show me how to dance.”

Sam would choke on his drink if he still had one. Instead, he splutters, “Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack. Come on, live a little.” Dean is spreading his arms as if he is daring Sam, nearly whacking some guy in the shoulder in the process.

Sam scoffs but follows his brother anyway. “I’m not the one who made fun of it two minutes ago.”

Then, the current song’s over and as soon as Sam hears the first strokes of James Hetfield’s guitar, he’s grinning. Maybe the universe likes to fuck with him for the hell of it but it occasionally makes up for it, too.

Before he knows it, he’s got his arm around Dean’s waist and Dean’s right hand in his left.

Dean makes a surprised noise that quickly turns into one of indignation. “Why do I gotta be the girl?”

“Because I’m taller.” Sam’s cheeks are starting to hurt from his wide-stretched grin. “Besides, you asked me to teach you, remember?”

“Fine. What do I do?”

Sam pulls his brother a little closer. Their chests are almost touching. “Take a step back with your left foot.” He nudges the tip of Dean’s shoe with his own.

Dean is focused on their feet while Sam is watching _him_. “Now take a step to the side with your right.”

“Like this?”

In the background Kirk Hammett joins with his own guitar riff. The bulky silver ring on Dean’s right ring finger is biting into Sam’s palm.

He says, “And now you kind of drag your left foot to your right foot, so you can step forward with your right this time. It’s basically the same thing again but mirrored.”

The way Dean is looking at him, Sam might as well be speaking Mandarin. He laughs. “You’ll get it. It’s easier to just go with the music and let me guide you.”

Dean huffs, shakes out his shoulders. A smile is tugging at the corners of his mouth. His hand is warm in Sam’s. “Alright, Jean Butler, show me what you’ve got.”

James long started singing in the background when Sam gathers his brother even closer and takes the first step.

Dean steps back, instinctively making the correct move, but he falters when it’s his turn to walk forward, using his left foot instead of the right one. He trips and his hand tightens on Sam’s.

“Smooth,” Sam remarks while Dean sorts out his tangled limbs.

“Hey. Novice here, remember?” Dean’s eyes flash upward at Sam, eyebrows raised, before he focuses on his feet again. 

The next try does indeed go a little more smoothly and Dean makes it through an entire chorus without messing up. Sam is kind of impressed actually because for all Dean’s love for music, the guy doesn’t really have a sense of rhythm.

“This is all you do?” Dean asks after a while. He’s got the pattern down and he is even putting his hips into it now. 

“Well, yeah, there are some figures and spins but –”

“Go for it.” Dean smirks at him. “We’re already here so why not provide some more amusement for everyone?”

In reality, hardly anyone is paying them any mind. “Alright,” Sam says, “It’s a little difficult to explain, just … go with me.”

Dean snorts. “Easy enough.”

It should be a catastrophe but Dean actually only trips over his own feet a little as Sam spins them in a half circle on the next sequence instead of stepping forward.

Dean’s grinning. “Okay, that’s actually kinda fun.”

“Told you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I won’t make fun of your ‘skills’ again.” He takes his hand off Sam’s shoulder to make air quotes with his index and middle finger. “But if you try and dip me, I’ll kick your ass.”

Sam laughs out loud. For a Winchester birthday, this isn’t bad. Isn’t bad at all.


	6. Night Moves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the song Lips of an Angel by Hinder.

Sam startled from slumber, creaking joints and fluttering lids, blindly grabbing for the coffee mug that had tipped over and startled him. 

Sluggish despite the caffeine, he sat up, stifling a groan against the twinge in his spine. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. Tried to massage the room into focus in the dim light of the desk lamp but his vision only grew blurrier. 

A door opened behind him. Jess was standing in the frame when he turned around, all bed-head and naked legs and he couldn’t stand to look at her for more than a few seconds.

“Hey, you coming to bed?” Her voice was rough from sleep, almost gravelly, and Sam immediately thought of someone else.

He twirled the empty mug between his fingers. “Yeah. Just a few minutes.”

She was looking at him as if she knew. Knew the workings of his mind but that was impossible. She might think she knew him but how could she if Sam didn’t even know himself most days.

She nodded, “Don’t stay up too late,” and disappeared back into the bedroom.

He made more coffee. It was a survival instinct – everyone joked about the constant all-nighters in college, the long hours – but for Sam coffee was something he no longer enjoyed. A means to an end. 

Maybe that was why he had turned to whiskey for breakfast. But maybe that wasn’t the reason at all.

He sighed, the report on his desk half-written and barely thought through. He used to take his studies seriously. He liked to think he still did but the bullshit kept creeping in. He adhered to his deadlines.

His phone rang and he jumped. Hot coffee sloshed over his thumb and he licked it clean before pushing papers aside to answer. Without glancing at the display, he took the call. He knew who would be on the other end.

“Hey Sammy.”

Thick country drawl in his ear, familiar and amplified by what were probably two beers too many. Heat curled in his belly. The smile that spread over his face was automatic.

“Hi,” he whispered, bedroom door still ajar, sleeping girlfriend in the dark beyond. “Why’re you calling so late?”

“Just got back.” Dean sounded unhurried, awake. So close. Too far away. “Dad’s still out, so I just … I just wanted to, um…”

Sam’s grin was going to cause a cramp in his cheek muscles soon. “Yeah, good to hear from you, too.”

Silence stretched. It wasn’t necessarily uncomfortable, until Sam had to make it so. “I miss you.”

He bit his lip, waiting for Dean’s answer. Once not caring for their unspoken law not to bring it up ever. Whatever it was.

Dean sighed. Resignation. “I’m… Me too, Sammy,” he said for the first time in months, surprising Sam.

With Dean calling every week, they never talked about anything important. Sam had stopped calling in between because Dean would never pick up. It was like he had to slip into an armor before talking to Sam and maybe that was what it was. They both had built walls around themselves so high they could no longer see the horizon.

The following silence was definitively awkward.

“We –,” Dean began. 

“So –,” Sam began.

The bedroom light switched back on and Jess rose in the door once again, not as rumpled as before. 

“Who’s that?” she asked and Sam feared her tone because it revealed nothing. Jess was one of the very few people he couldn’t read. Sometimes he wondered whether that was the reason he liked her.

“Why are you getting a call in the middle of the night?”

Sam wasn’t sure whether she was pretending or not. She must have noticed the weekly calls. Maybe not every week, sometimes one of them stayed at a friend’s for the night, but this wasn’t a new development. Sam wished he could say it wasn’t actually as ingrained in his routine as it was.

“It’s nothing, babe. It’s not important. Go back to bed. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

A warm chuckle in his ear and he shivered in the cool apartment. “So, I’m not important then?” Dean asked, voice low.

Sam kept quiet until Jess had disappeared again, this time pulling the door shut behind her. Sam swore the click of the knob carried a certain gravity with it.

Sometimes Sam wanted to scream. It was nobody’s fault, really. Dean was being an annoying big brother like always and Jess was being a girlfriend like always and school was just being school. Like always. Sometimes ‘always’ sucked ass.

“Dean,” Sam said, “’s there a reason you called?”

He was being cold on purpose. It was a futile attempt at avoiding collateral damage because he could already feel that this time was different. Dean’s voice had that hitch to it, the bit of breathlessness that had nothing to do with alcohol. The one that haunted Sam in his dreams and he didn’t even care anymore that he was exhausted, as long as Dean never stopped talking to him like that.

Sam switched the phone from his left ear to his right and back just to have something to do with his hands. 

“Yeah, thought we could hang out, y’know. I could braid your hair, you give me the 411 on all that college gossip, that sort’a thing.”

Sometimes Sam wanted to hit his brother. 

Not just a little shove, putting him in a headlock and laugh it off. Actual punches thrown, blood and life out in the open. He stared down at his knuckles, curling and uncurling his fingers.

He dropped his hand when he realized that Dean was serious. Not in what he said but in what he meant. 

“But I guess this is a bad time, so I’m just gonna –”

“Dean,” Sam breathed, low and quick as if he was in pain and he most definitely was. Because Dean couldn’t mean… Couldn’t mean.

“Sammy.”

It wasn’t fair. Too use _that_ name at _that_ exact moment because Sam had no defenses against it. Nobody said his name like Dean did and that was bad enough but nobody got to call him _that_ ever, except for Dean. Always except for Dean because general human rules didn’t apply to Dean.

Sam almost didn’t ask but it rushed out of him, on its own account. “Where are you?”

“Not that far. ’bout two hours if you hit it.” And that was that. Decision made even though neither of them had acknowledged anything out loud. It was what they did. Follow blindly. Moths and flames.

“How long’s dad gonna be gone?” That was code for _Will we still have time to talk in the morning? Because what I’m gonna do tonight is fuck you until neither of us can speak._

“Ah, you know him, he don’t do post-its. Noon t’morrow. Probably later.” Which was code for _We’ll even have time for round two_ and Sam slammed his feet into his shoes. 

He grabbed his wallet from his desk, haphazardly tidying the scattered papers. The report would have to wait. 

He grabbed the keys to Jess’s car and managed to squash that arising sliver of guilt. “Name of the town?”

“Jackson. Country Squire Motel on Main. Room 18.”

The finality of it only sank in when his eyes got stuck on the closed bedroom door. His heart was beating fast in his throat but he couldn’t bring himself to do more than leave a short note. 

_Back tomorrow, don’t worry. x_

She would kill him, and rightly so, but he couldn’t think about anything but Dean’s low voice in his ear, blood rushing too loud to hear anything else.

“I’m leaving now.”

“Yeah. And Sam? Shag ass.”

Sam’s grin stretched wide across his face and he hung up without another word.


	7. Voluntary Vices

“How did this glass get empty?”

It was a ridiculous question. Sam hadn’t thought his brother could actually still get drunk but clearly, he was three sheets to the wind.

“You drank it,” he explained without looking up from his laptop.

Dean made a ‘huh’ sound. “So I did.”

Sam did look up then, watching his brother twiddle the empty tumbler back and forth between his fingers. “And you’re drunk.”

“So I am.” Dean nodded, straight-faced. Under different circumstances Sam would have laughed. “Whatcha gonna do about it?”

_Carry you to bed when you pass out in your chair and put a glass of water and two aspirins on your bedside table._

“Nothing.” He returned his gaze to the laptop screen.

Dean hummed and made a grab for the near-empty whiskey bottle. Sam slid it just out of reach. He didn’t have to see his brother’s face to know he was pouting.  
As rarely as Dean got drunk, he was kind of adorable when he did. Sam was torn between being annoyed and find him endearing even though there was really nothing endearing about it.

Their lives were fucked up enough, though. Sam didn’t need to feel guilty for finding his drunk brother cute.

“Hey, Sammy?”

“Yeah?”

There was silence after that, making Sam raise his eyes from his reading. His vision was beginning to swim and his neck was hurting from sitting in one position for way too long. “What is it?”

Dean was staring at the smooth wood of the table top, forehead crinkled as if he was trying very hard to remember what he had just wanted to tell Sam.

“I forgot,” he said, sounding distressed.

“Couldn’t have been that important then.”

“Pretty sure it was.”

Sam sighed. He wasn’t sure why he was still here instead of in his bed. “It’ll come to you.”

Dean rose from his chair abruptly, swaying on his feet a little. Sam shut his laptop, ready to get up if Dean needed a hand.

His brother waved him off, “’m fine,” and rounded the table to Sam’s side. Sam barely had time to open his mouth before he found himself with Dean sitting in his lap, grinning at him with an overwhelming elation only a drunk person could muster.

“W–“ _What are you doing?_ Sam had been about to say but Dean had already wrapped his arms around Sam’s shoulders and scooted closer. Sam could taste the whiskey on his breath.

It wasn’t as gross as it should have been. Sam wasn’t a stranger to the smell or taste of liquor. Hell, he had had his fair share of nights spent shit-faced when it had all become too much. There was escape in numbness, he knew that better than anyone.

Numb was the last thing he felt when Dean leaned forward and kissed him. Sam had kind of seen it coming in way their faces had barely been an inch apart, in the glint in Dean’s eyes that was more than just intoxication, in his own shortness of breath.

Someone made a sound, a low whimper coming from the back of the throat, and Sam realized it was him when Dean grinned against his mouth and kissed him harder, tongue and teeth making a perfect mess.

Sam knew this wouldn’t lead anywhere tonight – he was too tired and Dean was too drunk – but it was nice, more than nice, to feel his brother solid and warm in his arms. To have his senses overwhelmed with the smell of sweat and leather and the taste of Dean underneath all the alcohol.

Dean pulled back with a gasp. “I remembered.” He sounded giddy.

Sam tried to blink through his haze. “What?”

“What I wanted to tell you. I remembered."

“What was it?”

The line of Dean's mouth curved into a smile. “Happy New Year.”

~

Sam did end up carrying Dean to bed but instead of getting Dean a glass of water and retreating to his own room, he stayed. He made his brother scoot over and folded himself against Dean’s back, pulling him into his own body.

Dean woke up long enough to mutter a sleepy “You better not hog the blankets,” before he got pulled under again.

In the morning, it was Sam who woke up freezing in just his boxer shorts because Dean had wrapped the blanket around himself like a burrito.


	8. Mutual Realizations

It isn’t news to anyone that Sam’s brother is beautiful, least of all to Sam.

It has developed into something bordering on obsessive, really. The staring, that is. Sam is well-aware he’s doing it. He just can’t stop.

For all his obtuseness, Dean has begun to notice it, too. It’s _that_ obvious.

It’s not for the first time that they’re in public – working a _job_ at that – and Sam catches himself how he lets his eyes linger for way longer than would be deemed appropriate in any context. Lucky for Sam, the widower they’re interviewing is too shaken up to notice anything other than his own grief.

Lucky because Dean is _pissed_.

“Fucking hell, Sam, would you stop _staring_ at me and tell me what your fucking problem is?!”

Okay, so ‘pissed’ might be an understatement. And Sam’s in deep shit because instead of opening his mouth and explaining his behavior, he can’t seem to think of a word to say because Dean’s eyes are glittering and his cheeks are flushed from his anger and the cold outside. His hair is damp with snow and even set in an angry line, his mouth still somehow manages to look plush and inviting.

It’s an honest-to-God problem.

Sam’s got nothing. He stays quiet and Dean makes an ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ gesture that involves heavy use of his eyebrows and his hands before he turns away with a scoff.

“Fine, if you’re just gonna stand there, at least take off your shoes because you’re tracking in mud and I ain’t fucking cleaning this floor.” He’s growling, low and dangerous in the back of his throat, completely at odds with his soft features and pale skin, and now Sam has got a whole ’nother problem to focus on.

Because it doesn’t matter than Dean is mad. That voice is doing things things to him that are even less appropriate than the staring. He is driving himself insane.

It’s not until the next morning that Sam fully grasps the gravity of the situation. 

Dean didn’t talk to him for the remainder of the day but Sam suspects his brother has already forgotten all about it by now.

They meet in the kitchen like most mornings. Sam always gets up early – at _the asscrack of dawn_ as Dean likes to call it –, goes for a run, and makes breakfast after he’s had a shower. The smell of coffee is usually enough to lure Dean out of his room. 

They’ve got a nice routine going. It’s predictable. It’s safe. Sam is unsure himself why he so badly has to ruin it. As stunning as Dean is when he is glowering, Sam isn’t a fan of making his brother angry. It’s generally more trouble than it’s worth.

The strange pull – Sam is reluctant to call it a temptation – is always the strongest in the morning.

It has to do with that stupid robe Dean refuses to change out of if it’s before noon. It’s his unruly hair – sticking up in more places than one – that’s the problem. His sleep-flushed skin. The three day’s worth of scruff Sam secretly hopes he doesn’t shave off. It’s his bare feet, noiseless on the tiled floor, his slow morning reflexes, his tiny, contented smile when he’s taking the first sip of his coffee.

It’s probably for the thousandth time that Sam notices all of this.

He fully expects his brother to get mad again when he catches Sam staring halfway through his first mug of coffee. He’s got one eyebrow raised already and Sam prepares for the blow-up, but nothing happens.

Except a soft sigh. Resignation. “Sam, seriously, you’re starting to freak me out.”

He doesn’t say it with the usual snark, the usual ‘my little brother’s a freak’ mockery. He sounds genuinely concerned and that’s the moment Sam decides that something’s gotta give. 

Preferably right now.

He doesn’t get up from the table. Instead, he reaches across it and fists his fingers in the front of Dean’s shirt. The one he slept in, the one that still smells like sleep and Dean. Sam can smell it even more strongly when he leans forward and pulls Dean towards him.

Dean gives a start, ceramic clinking, coffee spilling, but Sam doesn’t care because he is already, _finally_ , kissing his brother. Not chastely, either, he’s full-on smashing their mouths together, heedless of lips getting caught between teeth. 

Dean jerks again before his palms come down on Sam’s shoulders and he gets with the program. He makes a little gasping noise into Sam’s mouth.

When Sam pulls back a pair of wide, green eyes are staring right at him, filled with surprise and dawning realisation.

“Oh,” Dean breathes.

“Yeah,” Sam breathes back.


	9. On Those Days

It’s these sort of days that both of them like the best.

Where, for once, nothing more sinister is on the agenda than cleaning the kitchen and oiling the hinges of the front door. Where they don’t go looking for hunts because Sam made Dean _promise_.

‘Just once every week,’ he said. ‘Just one day where we don’t go looking for trouble.’

And who is Dean to deny his little brother a request like this. His brother, who’s barely in his mid-thirties and has already sacrificed _everything_. Who will readily do it again and again if it means other people are safe. If it means the world is safe.

Of course there are other days where they don’t hunt. Sometimes they are busy with something else, something greater, something of heaven-and-hell proportions that won’t give them a break, but sometimes there’s just nothing _to_ hunt.

Granted, these days are rare. Usually, there’s always _someone_ who needs saving.

Sometimes Sam breaks his own promise. If he catches wind of a job, he’ll be too restless, too worried to let it go, and they’ll call another hunter to take care of it if it’s their day off.

It’s almost hilarious that they even get to have something like a day off. But Dean definitely sees the necessity of it. They’ll both run themselves into the ground some day. 

It makes that one day all the more special. They pick one of the quieter days and they don’t run errands, they don’t read the paper or watch the news, they don’t go out and talk to other people. They stay in the bunker and turn it into a make-believe cocoon of peace and safety for one day.

They don’t get out of bed before noon, either, and that’s Dean’s favorite part. When it’s just the two of them sharing body heat underneath the blanket, skin warm and soft from sleep, movements slow, touches tender.

Dean especially likes the touching.

Sam is generally pretty agreeable when it comes to sex but it’s those mornings when he’s the most pliable, the most patient, willing to let his brother run his hands over all those sensitive spots, his body better known to Dean than to himself.

Dean likes to take his sweet time, too, because on those days they have it. He likes to map out Sam’s body with his mouth and his fingertips, likes to kiss and nip with his teeth.

Sam always makes the most delicious noises, soft little whines and quiet moans.

On those mornings, Dean likes to fuck Sam languidly, long and slow strokes designed to drive him insane, teasing him still after Dean spent at least half an hour opening him up with his fingers and tongue. After Sam’s moans turned into pleas.

They don’t eat breakfast until at least one o’clock, both their stomachs rumbling by then. They have a quick shower and Dean usually makes pancakes for both of them. Sometimes Sam offers to make breakfast instead but Dean’s is better, if he may say so himself.

“Move it, Sasquatch,” he says, hip-checking Sam as he squeezes past Dean with two mugs of steaming coffee.

The coffee sloshes precariously but Sam balances it so it doesn’t spill. “Watch it, asshole,” he returns without heat and sits down at the table.

Dean joins him five minutes later to shovel pancakes onto both their plates.


	10. Not a Kansas Boy

Dean isn’t a Kansas boy. 

He was _born_ in Kansas but he was raised on the road. Mind him, he doesn’t have more of a connection to that particular region of the country than to any other.

He wasn’t raised by a Kansas man, either. He was raised by a marine, and, to him, that means so much more.

Dean still doesn’t much care for Kansas. He finds it odd that in a place where the summers are that hot, the winters can be utterly freezing. Sam explained it to him at some point, climate regions and all that shit, but Dean didn’t listen. He didn’t really want to know anyway, was only thinking aloud. He tends to tune Sam out when his brother goes off on some nerdy tangent.

The summers are not only hot, though, but also humid and Dean’s T-shirt is sticking to his skin. Sweat is running down his face and into his collar and he gave up trying to wipe it away a while ago when the towel became wetter than his own skin. 

It’s disgusting.

Summer brings storms and dirt. The Impala is in constant need of a wash. Repairs, too, apparently, because sand manages to sneak into every nook and cranny and Dean doesn’t even know where all the sand is even coming from.

He wipes his wet face with a moist arm and grimaces. Tools keep slipping from his sweaty fingers and he is just about ready to give up when footsteps approach.

He and Sam have spent enough years living in each other’s pockets that Dean can tell it’s him from just the sequence of his steps. That and the quite obvious fact that there’s not another soul out here for miles.

“You reek,” Sam says in place of a greeting, plucking at the wet fabric clinging to Dean’s shoulders.

Dean grunts. “Good on you for noticing.”

“You should try again some other time,” Sam says, looking the dirt-crusted car over. “It’s too hot for you to be out here this long.”

Dean clenches his fingers when the wrench threatens to slide out of his hand again. “It’s too hot to do anything. And it’s gonna be like that for another month. Might as well try and get it over with.”

A short silence stretches between them. 

“You avoiding me?” Sam asks suddenly and Dean startles, accidentally burning his forearm on the car’s scorching hot metal.

He grinds his teeth against the stinging pain. “‘Course not. I like it out here.”

“Dean.”

Sam’s got that whiney ‘Don’t bullshit me, Dean’ sort of tone in his voice and Dean doesn’t know what to say.

Summer is a difficult time. Difficult because it’s 100-plus fucking degrees and humidity is constantly at a minimum of 90 percent and Dean feels like his brain is coming out of his ears. And Sam keeps _touching_ him.

While the heat makes Dean cranky, it makes Sam … something else. He doesn’t seem to mind the weather too much despite his own sweat-stained T-shirt. But he’s not the one whose skin turns read after only five minutes spent outside. Instead, one trip to the grocery store is enough for him to acquire a tan, because life’s unfair like that.

It’s all very subtle and Dean can’t exactly pinpoint it but he definitely notices it.

There are less layers of clothing in summer, bare legs and bare arms, shiny skin, and Dean hasn’t yet learned how to deal with that. He only knows that it used to be a lot easier when Sam wasn’t taller than him yet, wasn’t broader than him, when his voice wasn’t as deep, as honey-rough. When he didn’t take up this much goddamn space.

Space. That’s what Dean needs. But he’s also hot and bored and kind of lonely, and to be honest, it’s nice. _Really_ nice.

Just then, when Dean thinks he can’t possibly get any hotter, Sam throws an arm around his shoulders. It’s gross, they’re sticking together, both of them sweaty, but Dean doesn’t do anything to stop him.

“Come on, let’s go inside,” Sam says, “You’ve probably got heatstroke already.”

Dean’s skin feels too tight to contain him. He doesn’t argue.

The cool air of the bunker feels like heaven on his heated skin, and now that he’s paying attention to it, he can feel a dull headache throbbing behind his temples.

He is tired, too, and way too aware of Sam’s palm on his back, guiding him, an entirely different kind of heat seeping into his skin and making him shiver despite the weather.

Dean is halfway to the kitchen to get some water for his parched throat when he realizes Sam isn’t following. He’s got his hands tucked into the pockets of his khakis and he’s just standing there. Looking.

That’s another thing. Sam _stares_.

It doesn’t happen often and it’s – usually – even subtler than the touching but it’s there and it’s making Dean itch. He doesn’t know what to do with it. More importantly, he doesn’t know what to do with what it’s doing to _him_. He is used to people looking, mostly women, some men, but it’s different when it’s Sam. It’s always different when it’s Sam.

It doesn’t freak him out, and that realization alone should be enough to make him run for the hills. He doesn’t respond to it because he’s still not entirely sure it’s not all in his head.

For someone who is amazing with words, Sam never gives Dean any kind of hint. It’s almost like it’s a game to him, only Dean doesn’t know the rules.

He hates feeling helpless and he’s exhausted and at the end of his tether. Did he mention lonely?

So he asks, “What?”

Sam doesn’t move. “Nothing.” His voice is scratchy, hoarse.

Dean is ready to give up, he really is. His little brother has always been weird, he’s okay with that. He can accept this as just another one of Sam’s … quirks.

Except, he thinks there’s more to it. The revelation could be a big one. That belief alone propels him forward. “Sam. There something you wanna say to me?”

Sam inhales sharply. His fingers twitch. That’s all he reveals before he says, “We should take a shower.”

Dean thinks the phrasing is odd. Not ‘You’ or ‘I’ but ‘We’. As in, together. He swallows. Nods, “Okay,” because it’s as close as he’ll come to acknowledging anything today.

Sam nods back, “Okay.”

Dean tries not to think about it all too much on the way to the Men of Letter’s grand shower room. He fails miserably.

Until Sam turns the water to lukewarm and gently presses him against the wall, under the spray, and that’s when Dean stops thinking altogether. 

He’s fairly sure he makes some sort of noise but it’s swallowed right up by Sam’s mouth on his, hot and wet and _starving_. If their clothes were wet to begin with, now they are _sopping_ and it’s difficult to get out of them. But they manage.

The water brings some relief, washing away the stickiness, cooling their bodies a little, but it doesn’t matter because Dean is already burning up again. He’s digging his fingernails into Sam’s shoulders, kissing him with complete abandon.

He couldn’t say now how it came to this, how they came this far. But he’s not having it any other way. Not anymore.


	11. Carry Each Other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title's a Leagues song.

Dean’s hands were shaking. That facts in itself was freaking Sam out a little because Dean hands were never shaking.

Despite the unsteady fingers, Dean managed to make a decent job of piercing Sam’s skin with the needle, placing the stitches close to the edge of the wound. The cut wasn’t long but it was deep and Sam had to flatten his breathing because with every movement of the chest, it spilled more blood.

“Dean.” Sam was surprised at the strength in his own voice but his brother didn’t seem to have heard him. “Dean, look at me.”

Dean gave a start, as if he had forgotten Sam was even there. He looked spooked, out of it. His fingers tied a knot with the end of the thread on autopilot, pulling on the skin.

Sam gritted his teeth against a hiss. He took hold of Dean’s wrists before Dean could pull away and disappear into the bathroom under the pretense of washing off the blood. Only it wasn’t entirely pretense because there truly was a lot of it. Sam grimaced.

“Dean, I’m not dead. I’m right here, look at me.”

Dean blinked a few times, wide-eyed, as if he was only now seeing Sam properly. “Yes,” he said, “Yes, I know.”

His voice was scratchy, like he had something stuck in his throat. Sam wasn’t going to mention it. He gently shook Dean’s wrist. “I need you to snap out of it.”

“What?”

“This, whatever stupor you’re in right now, snap out of it. We’ve still got work to do.”

Dean inhaled deeply, more deeply than was necessary. “Not dead,” he said, muttering to himself. Sam hadn’t seen his brother this rattled in a very long time even if they dealt with a lot of close calls. But some were closer than others. Some hit harder than others.

“No. Not dead.” Sam took Dean’s face in his hands, pressing his pinkies into the underside of Dean’s jaw to make him look up. “I’m not going anywhere. You wanna tell me what’s going on in your head?”

“I’m…” It didn’t look like Dean was going to continue that sentence. He closed his eyes, his jaw working, teeth grinding. His breathing was even but too artificially so, as if he had to work hard to keep it that way, stop himself from hyperventilating.

It was Sam’s first impulse to pull away when Dean kissed him suddenly. Despite the fact that he had been thinking about doing that for weeks, he was taken by surprise. But he stayed and his hands tightened against Dean’s cheeks, fingers digging in next to his ears, drawing his brother in closer.

Dean’s mouth was wet from his tongue licking his lips and quivering slightly. Sam kept his lips soft, countering Dean’s assault with something gentler. He stroked his fingers through Dean’s short hair until his brother stopped shaking and let Sam control the kiss.

Dean sighed with content, his fingers slowly loosening their death grip on Sam’s biceps, and Sam reluctantly pulled back, the corners of his mouth tugging into a smile. “You back with me now?”

“Yeah.” Dean cleared his throat, tilted his face to hide the soft flush creeping up. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

Sam brought their foreheads together. “Don’t you dare be sorry. Not for that.” He was talking about both the kiss and the freakout.

Dean’s hands briefly ghosted along his naked shoulders before he withdrew. Without looking at Sam, he said, “Gotta finish dressing that.”

Sam didn’t argue because he knew it was futile. Besides, Dean was right. He wasn’t exactly keen on a full-blown infection.

The alcohol was pure agony as it seeped into the open flesh and Sam’s teeth made a disgusting grinding noise when he pressed them together against the pain. Forehead furrowed, Dean fished some gauze out of their first-aid kit and pressed it over the wound with careful fingers, smoothing it and taping it down.

Sam blinked against the wetness in his eyes that the pain had brought up. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely.

Dean made a grunting noise that universally translated to ‘Don’t mention it’. He neatly re-packed the kit and went to shove it back into his duffel bag but Sam grabbed his wrist, halting him. 

“Wait,” he said, “Come back here.”

“Sam–“

“I’m tired. Let’s sleep.”

Sam was virtually able to pinpoint the moment Dean gave in. His shoulders sacked a little, the muscles in his forearms lost their tension against Sam’s palm.

“Alright.” Dean tossed the medical kit in the general direction of their luggage. “You need some painkillers?”

“Maybe later.” Sam shook his head. “I just … need you.” He had to force himself to say the words, not because he had a problem with admissions like that but because _Dean_ did.

Predictably, his brother tensed up again but this time it didn’t last long. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, looking utterly exhausted himself, and actually gave a little laugh. “Okay.”

Sam tugged him close again by his arm and, to his surprise, Dean went willingly, leaning down a little on his own accord and Sam surged up as much as his aching chest and exhausted body would let him. Their mouths met again, the kiss slow but in no way chaste, unhurried and almost sweet. Until Sam cupped the back of Dean’s neck and dragged him down further.

Dean caught himself on his hands at the last second before he toppled both of them to the bed. Sam grinned and Dean made made a small sound, “Watch it.” 

Then he pulled himself away, gently twisting out of Sam’s grip. “Alright, sleep,” and turned off the light.


	12. By Chance

In Dean’s opinion, having a New Year’s party when it was already the fourth of January didn’t make much sense. He hadn’t had any interest in going, either.

“But Mr. Smith,” Mr. Adler had said to him, “It would be a great opportunity.” His tone of voice had clearly conveyed that Dean had never, in fact, had a choice.

An opportunity for _what_ exactly, he wasn’t sure. Other than to get drunk, of course, and, fuck him, he was already well on his way to that particular goal.

People were dancing. Turning his back to them, Dean ordered another drink at the bar. He _loathed_ dancing.

He didn’t know why he was still there. He didn’t even like anyone he worked with. That was mostly why he was so good at his job.

Someone stepped up to the bar next to him and ordered four fingers of whiskey. Dean turned his head to the new arrival and remarked without thinking, “Wow, someone’s having a bad day.”

It was the alcohol. He didn’t usually like to strike up conversations with strangers, especially not in the jokey tone he had just employed.

The guy beside him – Dean’s first impression was tall, not that dark, and _very_ handsome – simply laughed and accepted his whiskey with gratitude.

“You could say that. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Hm. Not much for dancing then?” Dean’s eyes followed the man’s fingers as he gripped the whiskey tumbler and guided it to his mouth.

He stopped short, his eyes shifting to the glass. He tipped it toward Dean in question. “You want a drink?”

Dean shook his head. The answer was ‘yes’ but he really shouldn’t. He was already a little past tipsy and he didn’t have any intention of making headlines this evening.

When the man had downed his drink, he extended one hand to Dean. Long, slender fingers. Calloused. Warm, too, Dean noticed when he took the man’s hand and shook.

“Sam Wesson. IT.”

Dean nearly laughed. It was kind of ridiculous how everyone always felt the need to tack their profession or division onto an introduction, as if it meant anything. As if any of it was important. Dean guessed that some people prided themselves on things like that.

“Dean Smith,” he said and added with a wry smirk, “Sales and Marketing.”

The guy raised an eyebrow in his direction and then made a motion as if straightening a tie, scrunching his nose up in mock-snobbishness. He even stood up straighter, too.

Dean couldn’t help the snort of laughter that worked itself loose from his throat. On second thought, he might take that drink. He signaled the barkeeper, ordered another Gin Tonic.

“Were you threatened with corporal punishment if you didn’t show up here, too?” he asked.

Sam tilted his head in negation. “The entire team’s here. I just sort of … tagged along.”

“Where’s the rest of your team now?”

He laughed. “Ian’s probably passed out in the corner somewhere. Or getting high on the roof. Doesn’t matter that it’s only nine o’clock. The rest…” He looked around, then shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t actually know where they went. Would be just my luck if they already went home without telling me.” 

Dean could drink to that. When he looked around the room, he barely recognized anyone. Sure, there were some people that seemed vaguely familiar to him in the ‘say hi in the hallway’ kind of way, but no one he worked with on a regular basis. Typical that Adler would make him go and then not show up himself.

“You had a nice New Year’s?” Sam asked him.

If by ‘nice’ he meant drinking an entire bottle of gin by himself on the couch, then yeah, Dean had had a nice New Year’s. He wasn’t pitying himself. It could have been worse. For example, he could have been out of gin.

He made a noncommittal noise. “Nothing to write home about. Severe lack of New Year’s kisses.” 

As soon as he had said it, he cringed inwardly. Jesus, he needed to stop drinking. Why was he even still talking?

Sam just laughed again. He had a nice laugh. Dean didn’t know why he was noticing that. “Yeah, well,” Sam smiled at him in a conspiracy theory sort of way and, weirdly enough, Dean’s heart plummeted a little. 

He made light of it. “I take it you got some.” He toasted his glass at the taller man.

Sam grinned, then nodded solemnly. “Oh yeah. From my dog. He uses too much tongue, though.”

Right there, it was Dean’s turn to laugh. He definitely did not want to investigate the way he suddenly felt lighter again, almost relieved. He accusingly eyed his half-empty drink.

“I think I’ve reached my limit,” he said and pushed the glass away from himself. It slid across the smooth bar top and came to a halt barely an inch from the edge. Numbness had crept into Dean’s fingers and he flexed them against the uncomfortable feeling.

He didn’t make a habit of getting drunk. Not really. Just whenever he felt particularly lonely. Which, to be fair, had been quite often recently. Anyway, he didn’t _want_ to make a habit of it.

When he glanced over at Sam, the man was scrutinizing him, eyebrows drawn, a look of concentration on his face. Dean could only imagine what he looked like. Alcohol always drove a deep-red flush into his cheeks. It was kind of embarrassing.

“I think you have, too,” Sam said with a disarming smile. He was looking right at Dean, right into his eyes, and Dean couldn’t remember the last time someone’s sole intense focus had been on him like this. Most people didn’t actually look at you, they’ll just stare at a spot behind your shoulder.

It was more than a little exhilarating.

“You wanna dance?” Sam asked, startling Dean.

Dean’s eyes fell to the remaining party guests crowded together on the dance floor. He wasn’t particularly keen on getting in the middle of that. Not to mention that he was already a less-than-average dancer when sober.

“Not really,” he said.

Sam surprised him by saying, “Me neither.” He deposited his empty glass on the bar and made a ‘follow me’ gesture to Dean. “Let’s go up to the roof.”

“Why?” Dean was already walking, following, before he had made the conscious decision to move. “You wanna see if you can snarf some pot from your friend?”

Sam shot a grin back at him. “Something like that.”


	13. Night Terrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus round.

It isn’t the first time that Sam wakes from a nightmare yelling his brother’s name. Far from.

Jessica has asked him about it a few times. Actually, it happens so frequently that she’s already _stopped_ asking. Because Sam never tells. 

All Jessica knows about Dean is that he exists, that Sam has brother who’s a few years older. That’s it. For some reason, talking about Dean simply hurts too much. 

If it already feels like drowning every time Sam even _thinks_ about him for just a bit too long, talking about him would make him burst into tears and that would bring up all other kinds of questions and Sam’s not ready to deal with any of that. Probably never will be.

It’s easier this way and, to be honest, it’s not really important. Jessica doesn’t need to know because she belongs to a different life, to a different _Sam_ , than Dean does. 

She’s never seen Sam covered in blood – his own or someone else’s –, she’s never heard him speak Latin outside of that stupid language course he decided to take on a whim but now hates. She’s never seen him with a gun in his hands, aiming dead-center, and she’s never been in any kind of danger because of him.

Sam wants to keep it that way.

He gets to be someone else at Stanford. His life back with his brother and father was constant danger, constant pain, constant fear, and it nearly swallowed Sam whole. He is not that guy anymore and he doesn’t want to be.

Dean is the only remnant, the only link left to that life that Sam hasn’t yet managed to shake. He doesn’t think he ever will, either, and that’s okay. Dean is gunpowder and leather and stitches in the middle of the night with shaky hands and a needle dipped in whiskey. He’s 30 miles over the speed limit and he’s the moon in a night without stars.

It’s particularly difficult during night time. When Sam’s defences are down anyway, when Jess is asleep, when his mind starts to wander. When his subconscious has a chance to creep up on him and knock him out cold from behind when he expects it the least.

Most of the time, he is his own worst enemy. How do you escape that? So it’s no wonder he wakes up screaming sometimes.

But it’s different today.

Usually, it’s dead-quiet in the apartment. Jessica is a heavy sleeper, used to Sam’s night terrors. She squeezes her arms around him, half-asleep, and drops back under while Sam is still panting, sitting up in bed, arms trembling.

Tonight, there’s a sound out in the hallway. Sam might have left the life of a hunter behind him but that doesn’t mean his instincts have changed. His reflexes are still just as quick and he’s out of bed in the fraction of a second.

By the time Sam reaches the living room, the intruder is already in there. Sam’s first impression is tall but human and isn’t that kind of ironic? All this time he’s been prepared for something else.

Sam pounces when the guy is close. He collides with a hard body, a grunt coming from the man when Sam’s elbow catches him right between the ribs. Sam just barely manages to duck a fist but when he tries to land another punch of his own, the guy twists away from him, kicking at his legs.

Sam grabs for the man and they both go down, toppling to the floor in a tangle of limbs and maybe Sam’s reflexes aren’t at their best after all because he finds himself pinned on his back before he can draw another breath. There’s a forearm across his throat and muscular legs across his thighs, blocking him from getting up.

“Woah, easy, tiger.”

The apartment is dark but the moon light from the window is enough for Sam to finally recognize the intruder. His pulse jumps.

“ _Dean_?”

Dean’s grin is blinding, even in the low light. 

Sam’s heart gives a stutter. Somehow he can tell his brother isn’t here for a chat, not after two years of radio silence. Somehow he just knows he isn’t going to like this. Somehow he can already feel that he’s just stumbled into an entirely different nightmare. 

He’s not so sure he actually wants to wake up this time.


End file.
